


The Significance of Pie

by FriendofCarlotta



Series: Season 15 Codas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (sort of), Castiel Bakes Pie, Episode Coda for "Last Holiday" (15.14), Established Relationship, Fluff, Jealous Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Mrs. Butters Ships It, POV Castiel, Soft Boys, With just a pinch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26914954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta
Summary: Castiel returns to the bunker to find that a stranger has been taking care of his family. The infuriating Mrs. Butters seems to think that Dean likes cake and lacks for affection in his life. Castiel is determined to prove her wrong on both counts, the best way he knows how: by baking Dean a pie.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Season 15 Codas [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1975264
Comments: 75
Kudos: 266





	The Significance of Pie

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't going to write a coda for 15.14, but, well, here we are. Because Dean eating cake didn't feel right. And because Cas missing out on Jack's birthday celebration (and all the other holiday fun!) didn't feel right.
> 
> Thank you, [dothraki_shieldmaiden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dothraki_shieldmaiden/pseuds/dothraki_shieldmaiden), for making the excellent point that Cas would probably be a much better baker than Dean, due to the precision that baking requires. You accidentally inspired this. :)
> 
> This is unbetaed, so any mistakes are entirely mine.
> 
> Enjoy the baking fluff!

Castiel pushes his weight against the bunker’s door, shoulder first, until the heavy metal gives way with a familiar whine.

The sight that greets him as he steps inside is not surprising: an empty war room, the oranges and yellows of the map table glowing softly, the wall fixtures powered down to their lowest setting.

It’s late, Castiel knows. He knows it in the creak of his bones, the slump of his shoulders, the drag of his feet.

He shouldn’t be tired. His muscles shouldn’t ache. It’s just another worrisome sign that his Grace is fading, leaving him weaker with each passing day. He would pray for it to hold out until Jack is ready to face Chuck, at least. But the only people still left to pray to, his angelic brothers and sisters, are busy keeping the lights on in Heaven. Or else, looking for Amara at his behest.

What Castiel needs, more than anything else, is a break. Just one night to rest and see the faces of the people he loves most in the world.

But, of course, he’s come too late, and they’ve all gone to bed.

Castiel descends the stairs to the war room, feeling heavier with each step. He never wanted to leave in the first place. He wanted to make sure Jack was adjusting. He wanted to spend his evenings sitting in the bunker’s kitchen or the library, watching the Winchesters bicker. He wanted to sit and talk with Dean over shots of whiskey, enjoying the company even as the taste of the burning, amber liquid passed him by.

But the end of the world will not wait for Castiel’s whims. It’s important to move fast — to stay one step ahead of God himself and his capricious sister. Perhaps, once this fight is done, there will be peace and rest for Castiel and his family.

Weary, he slumps into one of the chairs next to the map table. He needs to sit, just for a moment, before he decides what to do about the rest of the night. It’s possible, he thinks, that he’s tired enough to actually sleep. The question is only whether he should do so in his own bed, the one with the lumpy mattress and the cold, unrumpled sheets. Or whether he should go down the hall and knock on the door of Room 11. Perhaps Dean would—

“And who might _you_ be?”

Castiel startles. In the doorway that leads to the kitchen stands a woman of advanced middle age, her reddish-brown hair tightly curled, her small frame contained in an immaculately fitted woolen suit and high-collared blouse. She seems quaint, benign, but there is a core of steel to her voice that marks her as a worthy opponent. Someone who will not give an inch. Someone potentially dangerous.

Castiel causes the weakened tendrils of his Grace to reach out and probe at this woman. He gets just the briefest inkling, a small tingle of magic, before she puts an end to his exploration with a swipe of her hand.

“Stop that, you,” she says, brows creased disapprovingly. “I mean no harm. It’s only polite to assure me of the same thing before you go poking at me with your…” She takes another step closer, putting a thoughtful finger to her lips. Her expression clears and she looks at him in wonder. “Angel Grace. You’re an angel.”

“Not much of one anymore,” Castiel says, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “This is my home, and even if it’s true that you mean no harm, I’ll have to insist that you tell me who or what you are.”

The woman’s face shapes itself into a silent “O” of understanding. “You’re Castiel.”

“Yes,” Castiel says, unable to deny it, and too tired to point out that this woman seems to have all the relevant information about him, while she still has yet to provide anything in return.

“Well, you may call me Mrs. Butters,” the woman says, much more kindly now. “I’m a wood nymph. This used to be _my_ home as well. The boys let me take care of them for a little while, but then they thought I’d better get back to my forest, and, well… perhaps it _is_ for the best.” Her eyes unfocus for a moment and her forehead creases, as though in memory of an unpleasant event, but then her face resumes its previous, quietly cheerful expression. “I only came back because I realized I’d forgotten to leave the recipe Dean asked for, the one for the Rice Krispie treats, and then… well… I saw the remains of that pitiful cake in the kitchen, and I couldn’t resist whipping up another one before I left again. Those boys do love their cake, don’t they? Especially Dean.”

She beams happily at Castiel as he attempts to parse the bewildering torrent of information he’s just received. He latches on to what, to his exhausted mind, seems the most important point. “Dean doesn’t love cake,” he says, too loudly, sounding petulant even to his own ears. “Dean loves pie.”

Mrs. Butters’ lips purse with disapproval. “There’s no need to snap at me, dear,” she says, coolly. “Dean seemed to enjoy my cakes just fine. Pathetically grateful, that boy, to have someone take care of him.” She shakes her head sadly, clicking her tongue. “He’s been alone too long, if you ask me.”

A squirming, writhing thing rears up in Castiel’s chest. If his Grace weren't so depleted, he’s sure his eyes would be glowing with the electric light of it. “Dean is _not_ alone,” he grits out. “ _I_ take care of him.”

Mrs. Butters crosses her arms at him and cocks her head; an open challenge. “Forgive me, dear, but I saw neither hide nor hair of you all those weeks I spent here. Not much of a caretaker, are you?”

“Fine.” Castiel rises from his chair, setting it wobbling across the floor. “Fine.”

Tails of his coat flapping, he makes for the kitchen, the _click-clack-click_ of high-heeled shoes following him all the way.

When he reaches his destination, he finds two cakes on the counter opposite the stove. One is glorious: perfectly shaped and frosted, the words “Be well, boys” adorning it in neat, looping trails of green icing. The other is a sad thing by comparison, half-eaten and lopsided. Castiel can barely make out the shaky letters in messy script:

_-ppy_

_-day_

_-ack_

He reaches out a tentative hand, fingers hovering over the letters, tracing them in mid-air.

“They celebrated Jack’s birthday?” Castiel croaks, the lines of his forehead settling into a furrow of confusion. “But I… it wasn’t… it’s not for another few months. I _know_ this. I would never miss…”

He breaks off. When he looks up, Mrs. Butters is standing next to him, studying him, her expression much kinder than before.

“Oh, dear,” she says, shaking her head. “You haven’t let anyone take care of _you_ in a long time, have you?” Her eyes roam Castiel’s face, searching. “Perhaps not ever.”

Castiel bristles. Whatever else he may be, he is not in need of a stranger’s pity, and he came to the kitchen for a reason, after all.

His motions sure and determined now, he slips off his trench coat and suit jacket, draping them over the nearest seat. He tugs off his tie and adds it to the pile, then unbuttons his shirt cuffs and rolls up the sleeves to his elbows.

Mrs. Butters watches him, eyebrows rising. “What on earth are you doing?”

Castiel pivots to face her. “I’m going to bake a pie.”

He strides to the fridge and starts to pull out the ingredients he’s going to need. Apples. Eggs. A lemon. A stick of butter. As he crosses to the pantry to retrieve the flour and spices, Mrs. Butters blocks his way; diminutive, but immovable. “At this hour? Dear, you look exhausted.”

“Yes, at this hour,” Castiel parrots grimly, and shoulders past her. He chooses not to acknowledge the second part of her statement. It’s unquestionably true, but the need to reassert himself, to prove that he has a purpose in this place, that he _belongs_ , wins out. If that means he has to bake pie in the dead of night, so be it.

Castiel sets to work, mixing flour and salt, then cutting up cubes of butter for the crust. Mrs. Butters has evidently given him up for a lost cause, and settles for watching quietly from a bench seat near the opposite wall.

It has been some time since Castiel last made a pie, and he remembers now how much he used to enjoy it. The precision of the measurements, the exact sequence of what needs to happen first, second, third. One false step, and the crust will be too hard or too soggy. But if he follows each direction to the letter, the result will be perfect without fail.

The first time Castiel made a pie for Dean was shortly after Rowena cured him of the effects of her attack-dog spell. He was finding it hard to leave the bunker, or even his room, while the disjointed, blood-tinged memories of recent events chased themselves around his head.

When the distractions provided by daytime television had lost their power, he’d gone wandering around the bunker, for hours at a time. He’d browsed the Men of Letters’ library, thinking perhaps he could find some diverting reading material. Instead, he’d discovered the library had a cooking section. The first book he’d picked up, a thick tome bound in white, had held a red ribbon to mark its place. Castiel had pulled at it, letting the book fall open in his hand. It had opened on a recipe for apple pie.

It would have seemed like fate, if Castiel had still believed in such a thing even then. Forgetting the troubles of the world around him, he had studied the recipe, the careful, step-by-step commands. He could do this. He was a soldier, after all. Perhaps not one who had ever been very good at following instructions — but he did know how, when the occasion called for it.

And if he could never seem to find the right words to tell Dean how sorry he was for being a burden, how much he wished he could be the person Dean deserved… perhaps his baking could speak the words for him.

To Castiel’s own surprise, the pie had turned out well on his first attempt. Dean had returned home from a hunt that night to the smell of warm pastry, tart apple and sweet cinnamon. They had kissed, then, for the first time in years, and they’d shared a bed, their bodies curled together, trading wordless touches that spelled contrition and forgiveness into each other’s skin.

Now, yet again, they’ve allowed years to pass since the last time they were intimate. There’s always another crisis to avert, another mission to pursue. There is never enough time.

But under the watchful eye of this stranger who has been taking care of Castiel’s family in his absence, he finds himself wanting to prove that he is worthy. That he _can_ be the person who takes care of his loved ones. Of Dean. What better way to do it than the tried-and-true one?

Castiel pays no mind to the small, fussy throat-clearing noises in the far corner of the room as he wraps up his pastry dough and puts it in the fridge. He’s just begun peeling his first apple when a soft shuffling sounds from the direction of the doorway. Perhaps Mrs. Butters has finally decided to leave him be.

“Cas?”

Castiel looks up from the crooked string of apple peel looping around his hand, and his heart leaps. Dean stands in the doorway, sleep-rumpled, clad in nothing but a plain white t-shirt and pajama pants decorated with pictures of a cartoon dog. His face splits in a wide, happy smile, the likes of which Castiel rarely sees on Dean’s face anymore. “You came back.”

“Yes. Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, softly. His eyes slide around the room, searching. He wants to point out the stranger in the bunker, wants to ask Dean why she is here, and whether she truly took better care of him than Castiel ever has.

But there is no one. The seat by the wall is empty, not a trace of its previous occupant remaining.

Dean has stepped up to the counter now, frowning down at the pristine cake that still sits on it. “Thought she was gone,” he mumbles, then looks up at Castiel. “Hey, did you happen to see a lady, about yea high?” He holds up a hand at the level of his collarbone.

Before Castiel can respond, Dean glances past the cake, to the pile of apples on the counter and the small spill of flour next to it. “Are you… making pie?”

“Yes,” Castiel admits, suddenly feeling a little silly. He puts down the apple and the vegetable peeler he’s still holding, then shuffles to the sink to wet a sponge and clean up the flour mess.

When he returns to the counter, Dean has hopped up onto it, just a few inches to the left of the flour. Castiel focuses on his task, wiping at the surface, when a finger hooks under his chin and stills his movements. He follows the gentle pressure of Dean’s hand, and finds himself looking up into affectionate green eyes.

“You’re making pie,” Dean says, his question turned statement of fact as he takes in the half-peeled evidence of Castiel’s foolishness.

Castiel sighs in defeat. “I realize you probably don’t want… I mean, you have the cake, and you obviously—”

Dean leans forward and brushes his lips against Castiel’s; a feather-light, fleeting touch. “I always want pie, Cas,” he whispers into the negligible space between them, his breath puffing gently against Castiel’s cheek. “I’ll eat cake, sure, but I’ll always want to come back to… pie, in the end.”

Castiel feels one corner of his lips tug up in the smallest of smiles. “Really?”

“Really,” Dean says. His arms come up around Castiel’s waist, pulling him close. “But what d’you say you finish this pie tomorrow and come to bed with me for now?”

Castiel meets Dean’s eyes, and nods. The sponge on the counter forgotten, he brings up a slightly damp hand to cup Dean’s stubbled cheek. “I’d like that.”

Dean's lips brush Castiel's again, and they linger this time. Kissing Dean is a comfortable and familiar thing, as always, no matter how much time has passed.

As Castiel loses himself in the scrape of Dean’s stubble against his lips, the feel of Dean’s warm, muscled back under the skin of his palms, he hears a disembodied whisper in his ear. “I see it now. You take such good care of him, dear. Make sure you let him do the same for you from time to time.”

The voice disappears on a flutter of wind at the back of Castiel’s neck, and he smiles against Dean’s lips.

Dean pulls back, returning Castiel’s smile a little uncertainly. “What?”

Castiel takes Dean’s hand, lacing their fingers together, and pulls him off the counter. “I’m tired, and I need a place to rest. Will you take care of me?”

Dean’s smile is the relief of the first birdsong of spring, the delicate beauty of a butterfly newly hatched from its cocoon.

“Yeah, Cas,” he says. “I can do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are life! If you enjoyed this, please leave me one, or hit that kudos button. I really appreciate hearing your thoughts :) . (And for anyone who really, REALLY enjoyed this, here's a [rebloggable tumblr post](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com/post/631518682432126976/the-significance-of-pie-castiel-pushes-his-weight).)
> 
> If you think you might like to read more of my writing in the future, you can [subscribe to me](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendofCarlotta/pseuds/FriendofCarlotta) on my author page!
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr!](https://friendofcarlotta.tumblr.com)


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